


There's No One Like Us

by emmawicked



Series: Outlast Secret Santa [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Misogyny, Drug Use, Falling In Love, M/M, Making out in a public restroom, Sarcasm, just dudes being complete assholes and falling in love, just guys being dudes, they're both dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmawicked/pseuds/emmawicked
Summary: Blaire doesn't really like Trager. Trager has other ideas.





	There's No One Like Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syrupwit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/gifts).



> A Christmas gift for @syrupwit on tumblr

Jeremy Blaire knows Trager in the way that a woman knows football; that is to say, in passing and without complete understanding. He enjoys his comments during meetings, vaguely mocking as they are. He’s entertaining, which is why Blaire makes a point to ignore his obvious coke nail when he shakes his hand. Beside that, Blaire doesn’t pay much attention to him. At first. 

Blaire was already in a shitty mood after the new hire spilt coffee on him. Little fucker wouldn’t last long if he didn’t get his goddamn act together. And then his secretary came in, yammering some shit about how Paul and Pauline came in earlier and… He zoned out once he realized it was nothing important. His eye was twitching when she left, fueled by the mounting stress of keeping Murkoff from running into the fucking ground. _Fuck_. Maybe he needed to take up yoga or some shit. That helps right? One day he was going to fire all the incompetent people; maybe then he’d finally get some peace. 

A knock sounds on the door to Blaire’s office. _Of fucking course._ Blaire mentally debates the pros and cons of not answering the door. _Would it kill everyone to leave me alone for a few hours to get some work done?_ He grunts in irritation before putting the Project Walrider XV folder to the side.

“Come in,” he calls, despite his desperate wish not to interact with any humans for at least 6 hours. 

“Hey buddy, how’s it goin?” Trager asks, leaning casually against the doorway to Blaire’s office. He’s wearing a pink button up with the collar popped; it would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. He picks at his fingernails, casually flinging the dirt on Blaire’s floor. Blaire’s face reddens. 

“Can you do that over a trash can?” _Or in your own goddamn office_ , Blaire adds mentally. 

“I could, yeah,” Trager says, “But my office is boring. It’s much more interesting to bother you.” 

Blaire’s eyes narrow as he glares at him. The little spark of irritation that was present in his chest all morning heightened into a small flame. 

“I’m not your goddamn entertainment, Trager,” Blaire says through gritted teeth, “Go annoy Parkinson or something. Some of us have files to review.” 

“Hmm- I’m sure you do,” Trager says in a tone that belied his true thoughts behind his words. “How about instead of doing whatever boring shit you’re actually doing right now, you go out to lunch with me.” 

Shock floods through Blaire’s system. “What?” He asks.

Richard snorts. “No need to be so uptight- live a little,” he says, “There’s a sushi bar just up the road, never been before. It’ll be fun.” 

Blaire blinks, anger dissipating like it was never there. “If this is your way of asking me on a date, you’re doing a really lousy job of it.” Sarcasm laces his voice. 

“You’re still coming, aren’t you?” Blaire looks at the stack of files needing to be looked over and mentally weighs it against his desire to do literally anything else. Normally, Blaire prides himself on being devoted to his work. _But what’s the fun of being the boss if you can’t shirk your duties?_

“Fine. I’m in,” Blaire says. “But only for the sushi.” 

Richard grins with too many teeth. “You’re buying.” 

“ _Fan- fucking- tastic_ ,” Blaire mutters under his breath. 

***

The sushi place is good. Way too good to be in the middle of fuck-all, Colorado. _Their loss, I guess_ , Blaire thinks as he bites into another piece. He never got the hang of chopsticks, so he uses his hands instead; his shirt sleeves rolled up to avoid being dipped in the soy sauce. Trager- _Richard_ \- leans back in his seat, using chopsticks with practiced ease. Blaire observes how cramped Richard is, sitting in the small booth; his lanky limbs folded neatly under the table and shoulders pitched inwards. 

“You know,” Richard says thoughtfully as he wipes soy sauce off the side of his face with his napkin, “It’s been five months since I’ve gotten out of the office for anything other than golf.” 

Blaire lifts his head, mildly interested. “You play?” He asks. 

“Used to a lot with people at work until I realized that they’re all terrible,” Richard replies with a graceful roll of his shoulder. He’s trying to be modest, but Blaire can see his pride in the tilt of his smile. 

Blaire grins, a touch too sharp to be called a smile. “That’s because you haven’t played against me yet,” he brags.  

Richard arches a bushy eyebrow. “Is that so? I’ll keep that in mind for next week.” Blaire scoffs and picks another piece of sushi with shrimp on top. The rice is sticky to his fingers. 

“Can you really not use chopsticks?” Richard asks. 

“Fuck off.” Richard bursts out laughing so loudly that the other patrons start looking at their table. 

“No, no,” Richard finally says once he calms down, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, “I’m serious. Did you never learn?” 

“Never thought it was important enough to learn,” Blaire bluffs. It’s a lie; he had tried on multiple occasions, but his fingers like to be insubordinate. Richard just smiles at his scowling demeanor.

“Here,” he says without a trace of condescension in his voice, “Try holding them like this.” He places Blaire’s fingers near the tip of the chopsticks, pointer finger resting on top. “Try now.” 

Blaire haltingly uses the chopsticks to pick up a piece of sushi. His fingers are wobbly and clumsy- almost dropping it before he could take a bite. No small amount of pride floods through him when he eventually manages it. Richard cheers at his accomplishment. 

“See!” He crows, “Anyone can do it, you just need practice.” 

Blaire grins. “Maybe I just needed a good teacher,” he says smoothly, leaning back in his chair. A flash of an unidentified emotion crosses Richard’s eyes. 

“I bet, buddy,” he says, “I guess you’re just lucky I happened to be free today.” Richard smiles at a joke only he understands. Blaire conceals a snort with an affirmative hum. He would bet 25% of his stocks that Richard was always free; he does enough of his work to keep his job- _and salary-_ and little else. Working overtime isn’t in Richard’s preferred repertoire. 

Blaire pushes aside his plate and drops his chopsticks to the side. “Alright, I’m out.” Richard looked at the remaining sushi on his plate with undisguised desire.

“Can I have the rest?” Richard asks. Blaire looks at him with a confusion tinged with disgust.

He sighs. “Fine,” he says, sliding the plate over to him. Richard eats it with enthusiasm and Blaire wonders how _exactly_ is he so thin when he eats so goddamn much? 

“You know,” Richard says when he finishes, “This was fun, we should do it again sometime.” Blaire thinks he should be offended at how surprised Richard sounds, but he doesn’t. 

Blaire raises his eyebrows. “You only say that because I’m paying,” he says dryly. 

Richard laughs, eyes sparkling. “What can I say? I’m a cheap date,” he says, “I’ll pay next time.” Somehow, Blaire doubts that will happen. 

It takes tries to motion the waiter over to get their check. Richard grins savagely as Blaire tears into the waiter for being unresponsive. Blaire gives him his company card and sends him back to the kitchen with his tail in between his legs. “Would it kill them to hire a competent wait staff?” Blaire grumbles. Richard just laughs. 

The receipt comes quickly- no doubt due to the amount of fear Blaire struck into the waiter’s soul- and he and Richard stand up.s Awkwardness isn’t a feeling Blaire has very often, but it strikes him at this moment before parting ways. He feels like he should be inviting Richard back to his apartment or kissing him goodbye; going out was reserved for romantic partners only. Or at least, it was. 

“This was nice, I’m glad I finally got you out of your office,” Richard says with a wink and Blaire stares at him in confusion because _what the fuck does that mean._ He had barely spoken to him before this. 

“Me too, Trager. Have fun on your golf course,” he responds. Blaire says his goodbyes and walks out to his car with the odd feeling that he enjoyed himself. 

***

It’s Wednesday the following week when there’s another knock on Blaire’s door. 

“Knock knock,” Richard calls, walking in the door without an invitation, “Work time is over.” He’s wearing the most god-awful outfit; a blue button up with an ugly argyle patterned sweater vest. Trager looks like he went into his grandfather’s closet and got dressed wearing a blindfold. Sighing, Blaire sets down his pen. 

“What do you want now?” Blaire asks. He should be irritated by Trager’s abrupt visit. The fact that he isn’t worries him more than whatever plans Trager has concocted for him. 

“Buddy!” Trager cries, “I can’t believe you forgot. I told you I was going to take you out to golf with me.” Blaire can’t tell whether the disappointment on his lips is faked or not. 

“I didn’t forget,” Blaire lies as he stands up, straightening the cuff on his suit, “But some advance warning would be nice.” 

Richard shrugs carelessly. “It’s more fun if it’s a surprise, don’t ya think?” 

“I don’t, but I doubt there’s any point in telling you otherwise,” Blaire says dryly. Richard chuckles as if to say, _You’re right._  

“C’mon,” Richard says, “My Jeep is running at entrance B right now and I don’t want to waste more gas than I have to.” 

Blaire shakes his head and locks his work in the left drawer of his desk. “ _Jeep_ ,” he mutters under his breath, “ _Why is it a fucking Jeep_.” He tucks the key back in his pocket and follows Richard out the door. 

“You won’t regret this buddy,” Richard says cheerfully, handing him a golf bag. Blaire grunts under the weight.

“No, but you will once I beat you,” Blaire says and Richard grins. 

“I’d like to see you try.” 

***

It’s still morning when they get to the golf course, early enough for it to still be cool, but not too early for morning dew. Blaire’s hair is mussed from the windy ride over.

“You really need to invest in a car with walls,” he grumbles. 

Richard rolls his eyes at his complaint which irritates him more. “A little breeze never hurt anybody,” he says, “Besides, if you wore a hat, then your hair wouldn’t get messy.” 

“What, you mean a hat like yours?” Blaire scoffs.

Richard looks affronted. “What is wrong with my hat?” 

“What’s wrong with y- it’s fucking hideous, Trager.” He’s wearing this rainbow colored monstrosity with pom-poms glued to it that makes Blaire want to burn his eyes out of their sockets. “You look like a demented toddler.”

“Ah, finally,” Richard says dryly, “Someone sees me for who I am inside.” Blaire snorts against his better judgement.

“When I win, I’m going to make you take that hat off,” Blaire promises, taking his driver out of his bag.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Richard says as he tosses his golf bag in the golf cart and walks over to the green. “Ladies first?”

“Piss off, Trager,” Blaire says as he sets up his tee. He takes the first swing and lands a decent ways away. 

“Try and beat that,” Blaire brags with a self-satisfied smile. Richard ignores him as he sets up his tee and carefully takes aim. He swings and sends the ball flying through the air. 

“C’mon buddy,” Trager says and starts jogging towards their balls without waiting. Blaire grins and follows, sure in his victory. 

Blaire wins that hole, but Trager wins the next. And the next. And the next. Until at the end, Blaire’s adding up their scores and wants to rip his hair out because apparently Trager is a God at golf. Blaire scored 15 points above Trager and Blaire is _good_. 

“Told you I’d win buddy,” Trager jokes, “C’mon, I’ll let you buy me a drink.” Blaire is gnashing his teeth and the competitive part of his brain is screaming to demand a redo and the smaller part is saying how a drink does sound nice right about now. The smaller part wins, for once and he follows Trager into the golf club. 

“Jesus,” Blaire says, wrinkling his nose, “They all look like they’re one foot in the grave.” One of the older man at a table hears him and sends them a dirty look. 

“Careful, you’re going to offend the corpses.” 

Blaire rolls his eyes. “Like I give a shit. Come on, I need a drink.” They take a seat at the bar. 

“White sangria,” Trager says. Blaire makes a face at his choice of drink.

“I’ll have bourbon, thanks,” he says when the bartender turns to him.

“Coming right up.” 

Blaire watches Trager as he watches the bartender with interest as he makes the sangria. He shakes the canister and pours it out in a too-large glass and slides it over to Trager. He takes a sip with enthusiasm and makes a low moaning sound. 

“That’s such a girl drink,” Blaire says disparagingly. 

“At least it tastes better than your bitter little sad drink over there,” Trager retorts, “And I can guarantee mine has a higher alcohol content.” 

Blaire inclines his head and takes a sip of his drink. “You have a point.” The satisfying burn of the drink slid down his throat, igniting a spark inside him. 

Three drinks later he was satisfyingly not-sober. It’s early afternoon and he still hasn’t eaten anything other than the greasy fries they serve at the counter, but he doesn’t give a shit; he’s drunk and he’s with Trager and there’s a warm fire running through his veins. What could be better?

Trager evidently has an idea. 

“So what do you say, buddy?” Trager asks with a wolfish grin, showing him the plastic baggie of white powder in his suit jacket pocket. 

“Fuck yes.” 

They’re walking towards the bathroom and they’re not giggling- Jeremy Blaire _does not_ giggle- but they’re loud, and half the club is looking at them. He’s sure that they all know what they’re about to do; the thought giving him a thrill that he can feel down his spine. He hasn’t been this excited in… fuck- forever.  

“Check the stalls! Check the stalls!” Trager calls as Blaire attempts to lock the bathroom door. 

“Shit.” Blaire does a quick sweep of the stalls. “We’re good.” No poopers- Hallelujah. He knows that they’re about to snort cocaine in a public restroom, but he didn’t need any more reminders of how disgusting a location it is. 

“Do you have a credit card on you?” Trager asks quizzically. Blaire opens his mouth to respond, but Richard interrupts him. “No, nevermind- I forgot I have a Starbucks gift card.” He winks as he pulls it out of his pocket and starts dividing it into lines. Blaire is even too drunk to needle Richard about his Starbucks card, eyes focused only on the coke. 

“Alright,” Trager says, “We’re good to go. I call dibs.” He shuts one nostril off with his index finger and snorts a line. He comes up for air and his face almost immediately relaxes. “Ahhhh, that’s the spot.” 

“Move,” Blaire says, annoyed, “It’s my turn.” 

“Fine Mr. Sassy-Pants.” Blaire rolls his eyes at him and follows Trager’s lead. He feels almost like he’s sobering up from the four scotches except for how the walls start vibrating. 

“Wow. It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Blaire admits. 

Trager snorts, some white dust still clinging to his nostril. “What? Cocaine or gone on a date with a man?” 

Blaire chokes as he’s snorting a line and he thinks some of it goes into his lungs. “Who the fuck said we were on a date?” 

“I did,” Trager answers, “What else would you call getting drunk and high in the bathroom of a fancy-shmancy club like this?” His tone is triumphant and Blaire looks at him in confused amusement. 

“Friends?” 

Trager scoffs. “Hah! You have a weird idea of friendship,” he says, “Last time I did coke in a bathroom with a guy, I ended up in Bora Bora, tied to a bed with a dildo up my ass.” 

Blaire would be lying if he said the image didn’t turn him on a little. He goes down for another line and when he comes back up he has enough courage to respond, “Care to repeat the experience?” 

Richard doesn’t laugh, only looks at him with clinical amusement. “That depends, are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” Blaire’s expression is deadpan. 

Trager’s grin is sharp. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He crawls over the sink to mash his mouth against Blaire’s. Blaire makes a surprised sound into his mouth, Trager’s tongue teasingly circling his lips. He still tastes like those three fucking sangrias he drank, the sweet taste of white wine lingering on his taste buds. He tastes sweet when really he should taste _rotten_. 

Blaire doesn’t know how long they kiss for- only that when Trager pulls away his curls are mussed and his pupils are blown wide. 

“Hmmm…” Trager purrs- Blaire’s starting to think that Trager can do anything ridiculous and still look hot- and brushes his hard on, “Take me home.”

“Of course,” Blaire says with a wolf grin, “It would be my _honor_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing & wanna talk to me follow my tumblr @emmawicked


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